Bittersweet Cure
by Rinara
Summary: Years after The Passing, all Survivors reunite once again. This time around, Ellis and Zoey have a daughter together. More years pass and the Survivors realize that she has a gift ... a cure to the infection. Chapter 3 now up.
1. Cure

A long way down.

I position myself carefully against the musky smelling, blood stained wall. I lifted my gaze from the ground below me, feeling the world around me swirl. The ledge under my feet seemed fragile, its edges softly crumbling with every swift move I make. I paced my movements along the ledge with the pace of my throbbing heart—I am afraid. My nails claw into the wall behind me, the angry rain pounded against my face, and the only thing I could think about is falling down to my death.

"Come on, sweetheart!" Rochelle motioned to me with her hand, the rain barely making it visible. "You can do it! Just slide a little closer to me!"

I looked at her faintly, almost losing my balance. Her soft, pink shirt and blue jeans were soaked to a darker shade because of the rain. She was the first out of the whole group to reach the other side of the building.

We could no longer fight so many zombies with little ammunition. Sadly, the only way to safety from the horde behind us was through this ledge. The worst part? An even bigger horde of zombies awaited us on ground level. Either way, Death constantly stalked me. I sighed, sealing my emotions in my throat.

Following me along the ledge, Nick sighed impatiently. I swallowed nervously. My fear of heights held me like a whimpering dog on a leash.

"We would have been better off staying where we were in the beginning," Nick whispered loudly enough for me to hear. I rolled my eyes in response.

I stumbled quickly sideways towards Rochelle.

"Whoa—" I gasped.

Rochelle swiftly extended both of her arms towards me as I lost my balance. I grasped onto her, sliding effortlessly off the ledge. She panicked, falling forward because of my sudden weight. Luckily, she hit the roof of the building instead of falling off with me.

"Ohhh," She moaned wearily. "This is bad!"

Her tight grip on my arms didn't weaken despite her obvious pain.

"I knew it!" Nick mocked me, quickly moving towards the building from the ledge.

I could feel Rochelle's grip loosen on my arms. The sweat of her palms continued to slide me further down to the ground and horde below. I tried to grab onto the ledge before I kept sliding down but that was near impossible. The horde below me was not my worst fear—it was the height of the fall. Not even the horde could climb up towards us. I wouldn't survive the fall. My heart throbbed anxiously.

"Nick!" I heard my dad yell. The fear in his voice was clear.

I wondered if his fearful, angry tone would be the last time I would hear his voice before the fall. The emotions of such a thought swelled into my eyes. Rochelle's grip continued to weaken—she was now holding my wrists. She groaned, using every last ounce of energy she had to try and pull me up. It didn't work. The grip she had on my wrists now moved to my hands. Her sweat and the rain did no help to my situation.

"Quickly, quickly!" Dad panicked. "Help pull her up!"

Louis followed Nick quickly, finally reaching the building safety. Dad quickly followed behind Louis anxiously; I could hear the fear in his panting. No sign of his usual optimism still existed. He just wasn't ready to lose his only daughter.

Nick reached the edge of the building and grabbed my wrists. Louis grabbed my arms. Rochelle finally let me go, knowing that her help would be no longer needed.

"Everything's going to be okay!" Louis smiled reassuringly as he saw my cheeks turn a bright red.

I felt like such a burden. Nick stared at me silently, almost angrily. To him, I _am_ a burden. Both men pulled me up effortlessly. I rested my knees on the edge of the building as I crawled towards safety.

"Baby—" Dad stuttered as he carefully moved from the ledge to the building. "Are you okay?"

I sighed softly. I could live for another day.

Francis followed my father, finally reaching the building. My mother slowly moved closer, leaving a huge gap between her and Francis. Coach was patiently following her. In a few minutes, my family was complete. We all made it safely across the ledge from building to building.

These people are my family: Mom, Dad, Rochelle, Nick, Coach, Francis, and Louis. I've been with them since as long as I remember. Before I knew how to read, my family taught me how to hold, shoot, and re-load a gun. I learned the basics of survival—something much needed in the cold, harsh world I live in. I am fourteen years old, and the only world I know about consists of the infected, the immune, and the carriers.

I am neither.

"Uncle Francis!" I yelled while watching a Smoker swiftly grab a hold on him.

The rest of my family re-loaded their weapons quickly, but sometimes, it's just a little too late. Uncle Francis struggled as he was quickly dragged towards a different building. I pulled myself off the ground and sprinted towards him. In a few seconds, I reached and grasped onto the Smoker's tongue, which was already constricting. The Smoker coughed fiercely, feeling my harmful touch. Uncle Francis gasped for air as the Smoker's tongue retreated.

I am not normal in the world I live in. No type of infected will ever come near or touch me. If I ever find myself face to face with one, they keep their distance, simply staring at me from afar. They stare at me curiously as if I am food, yet do not dare touch me as if they know I can hurt them. I feel as if there is some type of invisible barrier around me.

I knew that if I were to touch the Smoker that was hurting Uncle Francis, he would retreat. My touch _scars_ them enough to run away from me.

I am not normal. Why?

Because I am the cure to the infection.


	2. Objective

"I hate Smokers!" Uncle Francis dusted off his vest. "Thanks kiddo."

I smiled happily. I absolutely loved Uncle Francis, despite his hatred for everything. I, thankfully, was an exception to it. In fact, I think I might be his favorite! I smirked at the idea.

"That's my girl!" My mother patted my shoulders. "Gwen, you make me so proud."

… And I should—I _am_ a younger version of her, after all. I turned around to see my mother, smiling softly, blood running down her cheek. The corner of her lips twitching slightly. She was trying so hard to hide her pain. The last horde was just a little too much to bear. I wish I could take her pain away. I wish I could give her the cure to the infection so that she could be safe for a little while.

How I hated being an exception.

My mother's bangs covered her right eye completely. Her hair, wild like a horse's mane, gently hung past her shoulders. The usual rubber band that tied her hair back busted a few weeks ago. Honestly, I liked her hair better this way. Its mixed textures framed her face perfectly. The mixed straightness and waves of her rich, brown hair showed an elegant beauty I am not used to.

The elegance of her face, despite its bruises and cuts, could not be ignored. Her simple, light pink lips curved naturally upwards. Her jungle green eyes were structured by the perfect curve of her eyebrows. The mystic green color contrasted with her pale skin and light pink lips.

My mother's beauty is what captivated my father—according to Aunt Rochelle, Uncle Nick, and Uncle Coach. Aunt Rochelle recalls on the past fondly, with a sweet smile of adoration. It was the type of adoration one shows when recalling something silly. Perhaps even stupid. Uncle Nick, on the other hand, smirks mockingly every time he remembers. He never tells me why it's so funny to him, though. Sadly, Uncle Coach is just the same. He usually laughs quietly to himself when I ask the others about my father and my mother's past.

I chuckled, "Thanks, Mom. Glad you're proud of me."

I looked around the roof of the building we were on. There wasn't any way into the building below us. Louis studied my face, seeing my anxiousness to never walk on another ledge. He smiled widely, walking closer to me. Louis placed both hands on my shoulders and shook me lightly.

"Things can't get any worse," He whispered encouragingly.

What can I say? He knew me better than I knew myself.

I sighed. The nerves began building inside my stomach. "I sure hope not …"

Silence filled my family—there was no way down to the building below us. No ladders, no stairs, no ledges, nothing. _A dead end. _

"What now?" Aunt Rochelle scratched her head while looking over the ledge of the building. "There's no point in going back. There's no way down, either."

Uncle Nick rubbed his face angrily. "All this trouble—for what?"

Everyone turned to see him.

A sudden wave of guilt overwhelmed me instantly. As usual, it was my fault for my family being here in this mess. This cure brought nothing but harm and pain to the ones I loved. If I was normal, this wouldn't be happening. Even better, if I never existed … perhaps things would be okay.

"For some _rumor_?" Nick's tone became angrier than before. "For all we know, there probably is no 'scientific research facility' in D.C. at all!"

"Scientific research facility"—my heart throbbed viciously at his tone. Uncle Nick's somewhat sarcastic tone didn't impress or inspire me to laugh. This laboratory caused tears to swell in my eyes. I wish I could erase the memory of why we are traveling in the first place.

Coach sighed, "Nick—"

"I don't know about you all, but …" Nick rubbed his temples. "I am sick … and tired …of being sick and tired." He sighed, blowing off some steam.

I could not blame my uncle for feeling the way he did. In fact, I had no reason to doubt my whole family felt the same way. Uncle Nick was simply blunt enough to voice his opinion. I turned to see my mother, a sudden anger flaming in her eyes.

"This is all going to hell!" He yelled, now rubbing his forehead.

"Ohhh shut up!" Aunt Ro snapped, turning around from looking over the edge of the building. "Suit, you've gotta work on these _problems_ of yours."

She stared fiercely into his eyes, giving him a look I've seen about a million times before. Rochelle, ever since I can remember, has been the peacemaker of our family—along with Louis. She often tries to get Nick to calm down, to quit voicing his opinions about our problems. And why? She knows that each problem revolves around me. Rochelle wants to spare my feelings from everyone's hatred of our current situation, but it's no use. It didn't take a genius to understand that I am the cause for everyone's suffering.

"Right …" Uncle Nick somewhat cooled down. He understood Aunt Ro's secret language. I'm still trying to understand why he even bothered to calm down—everything is already said and done.

The usual, white suit Uncle Nick wore no longer looked the same. Some years ago, he finally got rid of the ragged, blood soaked, white coat of his suit and left it behind. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt, revealing his scraped, dirt stained arms. The crisp and fresh blue color of his shirt faded over the years. It was now stained with mud, covered in multiple blood spots, and torn completely around his chest—the signs of a hunter.

Studying his expression, a look of pain overwhelmed his face. His five o' clock shadow only added more emotion to his grim features. Nick's green eyes contrasted with the darkness of his face and untamed, wavy hair.

I stared at everyone's face. It seems they all secretly felt the same way Nick did: angry, sad, and thoughtful. I would give anything to change the current situation.

"I'll go back across the ledge—" I listened to my voice crack. The nerves began twisting in my stomach. "I can go back to the building we were at and find a ladder."

I pointed to the building adjacent to the one we were on. "Look—"

Everyone turned to see the building which was possibly condemned from even before the zombie apocalypse. The red bricks were completely faded, yet one thing was still visible. Two windows were facing us. One was boarded up completely, but the other one was not. If I could find a ladder, we could break the window and use the ladder as a bridge.

"We can get to the other building with a ladder …" I paused, amazed at the sudden bewilderment in Uncle Nick's eyes.

"We can use the ladder as a bridge …"

I turned to look at my family, each one grasping the idea silently. I could already tell Uncle Coach and Nick didn't approve of it. Uncle Francis really didn't seem to care. I turned my head, continuing to study everyone's emotions. My father looked at me approvingly, his bright blue eyes contrasting with the gloomy weather of the world around us.

"Well it better be a hell of a ladder, Gwen," Uncle Coach broke the silence. "Long enough to make a bridge, sturdy enough to hold all of us while we cross."

Nick smirked, "You mean it better be sturdy enough to hold _you_."

Uncle Coach frowned suddenly, only making Uncle Nick smile some more.

I looked down, staring at my white and muddy tennis-shoes. I walked silently towards the ledge, remembering my demise.

"Wait, sweetheart—" I quickly turned to see my father jog towards me. His usual, optimistic grin gave me comfort. At least someone was happy about this whole situation.

"Here ya' go," He handed me a pistol and a flashlight. "You're gonna need this."

I paused. My mind went blank.

"Dad?" I asked, completely puzzled. "You need this gun—the zombies won't hurt me."

"Ya' never know," He grinned widely. It was contagious. "Just in case you get bored and feel like shootin' something."

I chuckled. Unfortunately, I knew my dad better than that. He wasn't joking around. He was honestly more worried than he led on. Thankfully, my mother had more faith in me.

"Thanks, Dad …" I grinned, throwing my arms around his neck.

"Look at you," Uncle Coach smacked dad on the back. "Ellis, the family man."

Dad grinned, still hugging me. Uncle Nick rolled his eyes.

"Well, then …" Mom sighed. She slowly sat down on the floor. She placed her pistols beside her, and her hands began shaking. The pain must be unbearable. "We'll hold out here until you come back, Gwen."

Uncle Francis stretched before finally sitting down. "I've… I've felt better." He rubbed his wounds around his waist.

Louis sighed, nodding at Rochelle. They both sat down while sighing, feeling relieved. Sitting down must have felt wonderful. I was completely exhausted. But I stared at everyone—they really needed painkillers or med kits. It would be better off if I did leave to look for items and a ladder. My family needed their rest. I nodded at my father, and he smiled halfheartedly.

I walked towards the ledge, taking a deep breath. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I tucked the flashlight into my sweater's pocket. I held the pistol firmly in my hand. I sighed, tiptoeing my way onto the ledge. This time around, I felt no fear. My mind was focused, clear on what my objective was.

I had to wander through a zombie infested building to scavenge for supplies and a ladder. If I failed at this simple task, then my family would eventually die from their injuries.


	3. Prized Possesion

Upon entering the building, I could feel my face blush with frustration. A ladder? In this run-down apartment complex? Where am I going to find such a thing? Once again, my optimism has led to my possible demise. It never occurred to me that there might be nothing left in this building or any others—this could be the end for everyone.

The broken glass from the window crackled beneath my shoes, causing me to snap back into reality. I swiftly looked around the room I had once passed through in haste with my family, and then, it finally hit me. The room. My goodness—the room is absolutely beautiful. The photographs pinned to the walls showed a life I never knew existed. There were people in the pictures—a lot of people, and they were smiling. Smiling because they were _happy_.

Happy. Carefree. This person had a lot of … _friends_? Is that what you call a relationship between two people who are not family? Sure, I've picked up a few books from random places along our travels. And when my family and I spent time in a safe house, I read them all night by candlelight. I don't completely understand these books that I've read. They talk of fantasy worlds and sometimes about important people who used to live. Then, there are some books that depict love for another person who isn't a family member or a friend. Come to think of it, I've never had a friend before. I guess I might never understand. I've been alive for fourteen years, and I haven't seen another living person besides the members of my family.

The messed up bed sheets drew me further into the medium-sized apartment. A violin was tangled between the wild, zebra print sheets. Music notebooks and a violin stand were perfectly preserved near the bed. An easel stood motionless in a dark, bloody corner. Carefully painted artwork was sprawled all over the creamy, beige colored tile. Dried paint cans lay open near the easel. In the opposite side of the room away from the broken window, a bookshelf managed to cover the wall completely. I slowly walked towards the bookshelf, feeling as if making too much noise might awaken a ghost of some sort. The shelves contained books from various authors such as Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Oscar Wilde, T.S. Eliot, Robert Burns, and Arthur Miller. This apartment only had two rooms and a bathroom. It must have belonged to a person highly skilled in all of the arts.

Still listening to glass crack beneath my shoes, I carefully made my way to the broken, half-open door that led to the hallway. I _had _to help my family. After all these years, I've been nothing but a burden to the people that I love the most. Uncle Nick constantly reminds me of this fact. I do love him very much, but I don't think he cares for me in the same way. He has every right to hate me for being so worthless.

Pulling on the cold, bloody handle of the door, it creaked loudly, causing me to feel awkward. I am certainly terrified of being alone in a dark, zombie infested building. Sure, I had no reason to be, but even so, I was afraid. The pictures on the walls began to seem terrifying. I could almost imagine the people's eyes moving as they watched me open the broken door. It would seem silly for a fourteen year old girl to believe in ghosts. But then again, why not? Zombies exist, and no one ever believed that an infection could cause the end of the world.

_Click. Click. Click._

I immediately looked down towards my once amazing shoes and listened intently. Something was making a soft little noise—but what? I jumped immediately upon seeing a flash of incredibly bright light come from under the bed.

"Oh my—" I stumble towards the bed and climb on top, crushing the violin in the process. It let out a shriek of pain as if I hurt it. "Oh!"

I turn to look at the once beautiful instrument. The beautiful chestnut color was fading—it had been abandoned for quite some time. I gently rub my index finger across the strings, making a wonderful sound.

"I'm sorry, beautiful!" I smiled. If only I knew how to play such a wonderful instrument, but sadly, there is no time for such foolishness in the world I live in.

I pause. What was that bright light? What could be under the bed?

I begin to comfort myself, "Get over it! You live in a zombie infested world. There are no such things as ghosts!"

_Click. Click. Click._

Bravely, I swiftly jump off the bed, lie on the tile, and take a quick peak at what could be causing the noise. Another bright flash—I close my eyes in pain and extend both hands towards the light, grabbing something rather large. I pull out the mysterious object, fearful to open my eyes and see what atrocious thing it could be.

One, two, three—I open my eyes quickly and fearfully. I began to marvel at its beauty. It is a camera—a really fancy, expensive-looking one. I have seen these before in really old magazines I used to grab from abandoned homes. They use these to take pictures of models and beautiful landscapes.

"Nikon…" I whisper, wiping my fingers over the silver letters near the giant lens. It must be the brand name.

I sit in complete awe at the beautiful discovery I have made. Never have I seen such a beautiful piece of technology before. I've seen them in magazines and old newspaper ads, sure. Even so, the actual device is never given much justice in print form. Oddly, this device looked fairly new compared to the violin and paint cans. I stared into the lens on the front of the camera, curious as to how it worked. I begin to notice how there was a strap attached to the camera. It seems you could carry the camera in front of you by placing it around your neck.

I slowly turn the camera around, feeling how delicate it was despite its weight. On the screen, I notice my picture. I giggled softly—what a mess I was! I noticed my dirty blonde hair in all its wild, wavy glory. My bright green eyes stared into the lens in shock when the camera flashed. My mouth was slightly open. I looked dumbfounded, at best.

There were so many buttons near the screen; I wasn't sure on what they all did or meant. Clicking on a few of them, the screen showed various option menus. I canceled them all with each new button I clicked. Finally, upon clicking the last button, I managed to open a new screen showing all of the pictures within the camera. There were only three. Mine was the third one. I clicked the back button, revealing something strange.

The second picture showed graffiti on the wall of bathroom. In blue, capital letters, it read: _IF YOU CAN FIND ME, I'LL BE WAITING IN WASHINGTON D.C.!_

How strange. Why would someone take a picture of random, poorly written graffiti from some dirty bathroom? This hardly seemed appropriate for such an amazing camera. Wiping my palm against the dusty screen, I noticed something else. The camera is fully charged. How is this possible? It is currently reading ninety-eight percent charged. One more picture was left, and apparently, it was the very first that was taken. I scroll backwards again and pause.

Who is this man?

In the very first picture, a man—actually, a teenager possibly a little older than me—stared back into my eyes. I couldn't tear my gaze from those hazel gems, the perfect blend of brown and lime green. They were so round, so vibrant, so _alive_. His round, glorious eyes were framed perfectly by his long, curled eye lashes and spectacular arched eyebrows. This boy smiled widely at me, and his pearly white teeth were dazzling. Why was he so happy and about what? We live in a world infested with zombies, and here, I have a boy who is giving me two thumbs up with the biggest smile I have ever seen. I gazed into the screen for what seemed like an eternity. His honey colored hair looked perfect against his sun-tanned skin.

"What are you doin', Darling?"

I shrieked immediately and pulled myself off the tiled floor after hearing a voice. Turning around quickly towards the window, I caught sight of my father. My face flushed with embarrassment.

"Um—" I whispered, staring into my father's shocked facial expression. Even in the dim light of the apartment, his bright blue eyes glistened brightly. "I, uh … I—"

"You okay?" He asked, his lips curling upwards at the edges.

I couldn't stop blushing at my stupidity, "I'm perfectly fine! I just—I was distracted." I fiddled with the camera in my hands.

My father chuckled as he walked closer to me. I am wasting his time; my family needed help and _now_. This only gives Uncle Nick another reason to hate me. How I hated that.

"Well, you forgot one—"

I slipped past the broken door into the hallway, still carrying my prized possession. "It's okay! I'm on my way to find stuff, okay?"

My dad stumbled forward awkwardly, aware of my hasty attempt to escape. "Wait, no, don't—"

I sprinted down the hallway, feeling completely miserable. I must have spent a good thirty minutes wasting time. I listened as I heard my father call out my name in fear, but it was too late. I made it to the emergency staircase, and before I knew it, his voice started to fade. If there was anything I learned from a zombie apocalypse, one thing is certain: run fast.


End file.
